


you set me free

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Clubbing, Dancing, Grinding, M/M, Rickyl Writer's Group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not Rick’s scene. Not in the slightest. But he can't help himself when that bartender's got an ass that just won't quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you set me free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skarlatha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Skari! You're the one who got me started writing Rickyl, and nothing I could write for you (especially not this little thing) could ever say thank you enough for that gift, and for the gift of your friendship and your confidence in my writing. Our gang is all the better for having you!
> 
>  _nobody understands you_  
>  _you ain't nothin' they can handle_  
>  _and every man you put your hands on_  
>  _you make 'em feel so goddamn handsome_  
>  \- X Ambassadors

This is not Rick’s scene. Not in the slightest. There are two hundred half-dressed people packed in tight, bodies writhing like snakes to a neverending, bass-heavy rhythm that he can feel through the floor, up through his whole body, pounding in his head and his heart. If he presses his hand to his chest, he can feel his whole ribcage vibrating. 

It’s not an altogether bad feeling; in fact, it’s rather pleasant. Of all the highs a recently divorced, stressed-out cop _could_ be experiencing, this is the least likely one to lose him his badge. Provided he doesn’t get absolutely shitfaced and end up dancing shirtless on a bar, that is. He doesn’t do that. At least, not anymore. He’s sure there are still some interesting photos from college in Shane’s house, but thankfully, Shane has been gracious enough to not show them around the station. Yet.

The bar, lit up in greens and blues on the opposite side of the room, seems like the only thing not caught up in the energy here, the only thing steady and solid. It catches his eye, and Rick makes his way toward it, squeezing between two different grinding couples, hardly raising an eyebrow at one of them, two men dressed in - of all things - chicken costumes. If there’s one thing Rick has learned, it doesn’t have to be Halloween in Atlanta for the weird ones to come out. That’s why he’s here, after all. This weekend away in the city is supposed to be about lightening up, having fun, getting a little crazy. Rick is hoping for all of the above.

When he finally makes it to the bar, he busies himself studying the back of the nearest bartender while he waits for him to turn around. He’s balancing a few bottles in the crook of his arm, replacing and rearranging them on the shelves. Rick admires his biceps and the way his sleeveless shirt rides up in the back when he reaches up, revealing a strip of pale skin that Rick instantly wants to put his mouth on. 

And okay, so maybe he’s feeling a little desperate, but really, it’s not his fault he hasn’t gotten laid in more than a year. He can finally look at people again, not to mention look anywhere he likes. And It’s _also_ not his fault that the bartender has an ass that just won’t quit in those damn jeans. His eyes trail repeatedly over his back, down the soft curve of it, fingers itching to reach out and touch.

“Stare any longer and you’re buyin’ me a drink,” comes the bartender’s voice, loud over the music. It’s gruff, gritty, sends a little thrill up Rick’s spine. He’s about to ask how the bartender knew, when he notices the mirrored wall behind the shelves of bottles. The dude would have to be blind _not_ to notice Rick’s eyes on him for the last several minutes. 

He turns around to look at Rick, and Rick has to take a deep breath. He’s gorgeous, sure - with sleepy, narrowed eyes and permanent half scowl around his flawless mouth. But there’s something else about him that Rick can’t put his finger on. Something contradictory in his face, in the set of his shoulders that makes Rick think no matter how clean this guy gets, there’s still always gonna be something a little dirty about him. There’s no other way of describing it, and it makes Rick lick his lips and lean in closer.

“If I buy you a drink, do I get to stare longer?” Rick asks, feeling devilish and all too needy.

The bartender shrugs, one corner of those pretty lips turning up with amusement. “Maybe. Down, boy. I ain’t what you came over here for. Whatcha want to drink?”

“I did come over here for a Captain and Coke but I’d take _anything_ you’d like to put in my mouth.”

The bartender’s lips part in surprise, and Rick feels daring, fearless, and maybe a little reckless, the music and all these barely clothed bodies urging him on. 

“That so?” the bartender asks, recovering his composure, turning away briefly to mix Rick’s drink.

“It’s so,” Rick insists when the bartender pushes the glass across the bar. Their hands brush when Rick passes him a $20; Rick feels it like a shock. Rubbing absently at the spot where the other man touched him, he adds, “Get yourself whatever you want.”

The bartender is smirking at him, reaching for his hand again when there’s a sudden shout from behind him. “Daryl! Stop flirting and get your ass over here.”

The bartender - Daryl - doesn’t so much as flinch, looking cool and shameless. He shoots a glare over his shoulder at a skinny blonde who glares right back. Daryl waves the wrist with his watch on it in her direction. “I’m workin’ for my tips, Andrea. Anyway, it’s 9 o’clock. My shift’s over.” 

With that, Daryl turns and takes a quick shot of something Rick can’t see, and ducks underneath the bar. Rick barely has time to down half his drink, is still swallowing when Daryl grabs his hand and pulls him toward the crowd. 

“So about that tip, then…” Rick shouts over the music, and Daryl turns so suddenly that Rick collides with him, chest to chest. 

Rick feels Daryl’s hand sliding into his left pocket. “Your change,” he says, not breaking eye contact. He pulls his hand free only to slide it into one of Rick’s back pockets, grabbing his ass and pulling him close so their hips meet. “You can tip me like this.” 

His hips move slow at first against Rick’s, creating a rhythm that matches the steady, pulsing thump of the music, even though all Rick can think about is grinding against Daryl, hard and fast and rough. But this feels good, better than good, the pressure and the friction and Daryl’s mouth on his. Their kiss is like fire, hot and searing, makes Rick feel warmth and arousal like Daryl’s tongue is a drug. He’s just met him not twenty minutes ago, and he’s already addicted, already planning out the rest of this weekend in which hopefully every single second will be centered around his hotel room and this man in his bed.

The club becomes empty when Rick closes his eyes. Even with the press of bodies around them, all he knows is Daryl, this fucking flawless creature of a man who gives Rick as good as he’s getting, hands and mouth on him in this dance, all lust and no sign of slowing down. The sharp press of his hipbones against Rick’s is phenomenal, and when Daryl’s teeth nip at his earlobe, Rick hears the noises he’s making, half-growls low in his throat like an animal, and that alone could do him in. They’re both hard already, and Rick grinds fast now against Daryl, out of time with the music, but so much the better to suit what Rick really wants.

Rick slides a hand into Daryl’s hair and kisses his neck, brings his mouth to Daryl’s ear now and kisses there, too. “You’re gonna make me come right here,” he says, half in disbelief, unable to bite back a moan.

Daryl laughs. “That _was_ my intention.”

Daryl’s voice is making Rick come apart so easily. He’d partly expected this whole weekend to go by without a hint of anything like this, but in a way, it feels like fate. What are the chances that he picks _this_ club, and within ten minutes of walking in the door, finds someone like Daryl? 

“You don’t even know my name,” Rick says, kissing behind Daryl’s ear.

“Was just gonna call you Gorgeous,” Daryl says on a loud gasp. “But guess you’d better tell me if you want me yellin’ it later.”

“You read my mind,” Rick tells him, “ and it’s Rick.” 

“Would say I’m - _fuck!_ \- glad to meet you, Rick, but I think we’re past that stage.”

Between the music and the noises Daryl is making, Rick thinks he’ll be half deaf by the time he leaves. But it’s worth it; he’d love it if his ears rang forever with the sounds of those moans. Rick is almost to the point of no return, because it can’t last long, not like this, the music and adrenaline in every inch of him, Daryl rocking his hips forward against him without ceasing. 

“You do this out here on the floor with all the guys who stare at your ass?” Rick asks. His shirt is sticking to him now with sweat and someone else’s drink splashed down one side. 

Daryl mouths at his ear, shakes his head so Rick feels just a hint of stubble along Daryl’s jaw rubbing against his own. “Just the ones who look like you.” And then, as if to clarify, he says, “Ain’t never seen anybody that looks like _you_ , Rick.”

Rick’s breath hitches in his throat, gets short and shaky, and he’s so close now that he can almost feel that rush. It’s bubbling up, about to boil over…

“That’s…” Rick hisses out, but he can’t get the words out, isn’t even sure what he wants to say in response to that.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, I wanna take you right here, so goddamn _bad_ …” Daryl mutters in his ear, and it’s just the right side of filthy that it pushes Rick right over the edge without warning. His arm, wrapped around Daryl’s back, presses harder against him as he tries to hold himself up, legs shaking, whole body alive with orgasm. He can feel damp warmth in his boxers, can feel his own come dripping down his thigh and forming a wet spot in the front of his jeans, but he just doesn’t care.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Rick gasps, clinging to Daryl. And then Daryl is saying his name, and it sounds so good, moaned like that in his ear, so loud just to compete with the bassline. Daryl comes too, shuddering through it, although it looks no different than the hundreds of bodies around them, still moving, writhing and grinding and twisting as one. 

Daryl breathes hard in his ear, and Rick is so caught in the moment that it takes him a minute to realise Daryl is speaking to him. “...don’t care whose place we go to, just wanna keep doing this.”

Rick smiles, feeling dazed and hazy. “I’m not from around here but I got a hotel room not far away with a bed so big I could get lost in it.”

Daryl pulls back just so he can kiss Rick, and takes his hand. Then he leans back in and presses his lips against Rick’s ear again. “So let’s go get lost.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title (and quotation in the notes above) from the song 'Gorgeous' by X Ambassadors.


End file.
